Lessons from the Ropes Course: When Trying—and Falling—Is More than Enough

I’ve lost count of how many ropes courses I’ve completed in my lifetime. As a kid, I whizzed down zip lines at camp. As a young adult, I tested my mettle walking tightropes strung up high in the towering redwoods. As a coach, I’ve lead teams as they navigated across swinging, bouncing tires suspended from tree branches.

So, I hope you’ll forgive me for being a bit jaded when, during a friend’s weekend-long birthday celebration, I found myself surrounded by giggling, shrieking women all in the midst of losing their ropes-course virginity. As I stood off to the side watching, I could barely remember the thrill I’d once felt when conquering this mental and physical challenge.

Over dinner, the ladies gushed about their soaring confidence levels and relived every white-knuckle moment of the afternoon. Later on, in the quiet of my room, something started to nag at me. I’ve always been an “est” gal—I like to ski the fastest, hike the farthest, bike the steepest, lug the heaviest. Was my ropes-course cynicism masking a fear that I might not dominate the challenge this time around? Was I so concerned about not being the best (the most powerful “est” word of all) that I opted to spectate rather than participate?

These questions bothered me all night. The next morning, I wolfed down my poached eggs and headed straight for the ropes course. As the facilitator, Marcus, helped me harness up, he asked me to set an “intention” for the challenge ahead.

I told him about my long-time reign as Candra, Queen of the Ropes Course. “But it’s been a while, and I don’t know if that Candra still exists. I’m here to take this Candra up and see how she does.” I took a deep breath and reminded myself of an acronym I’d recently learned. JOY: Just Open Yourself. Then I extended my arms, smiled up at the sun, and stepped onto the course.

I was off. I clipped and unclipped. I shimmied and shook. I stretched and lunged. And then, I fell. Marcus lowered me to the ground.

“I want to try again,” I said immediately.

Marcus smiled. “Candra,” he asked, “what if that was enough?”

I tried to process what he meant. What if stepping on and falling off was enough? What if making it part of the way was enough? What if gently surrendering without wrestling my way to a “win” was enough?

As his words sank in, I knew he was onto something. For a different, earlier version of Candra, walking away “defeated” would never have been enough. But for this Candra—the one who tries to lead with grace rather than grit and to grow rather than conquer—Marcus’ question was spot-on.

I realized that not only had I’d done enough, I was enough. Marcus, the cool morning air, the slippery ropes—all those things and more were inviting me to surrender to the joy contained in this precise moment. I had nothing to prove by scaling trees or zipping across cables. Instead, I’d allowed myself to step up to a boundary, look squarely at it, and then step back with a better understanding of who I am and what I value. Choosing to not try again felt both foreign and transformational. This small, quiet victory felt profound.

I am enough.

I stepped out of my harness, thanked Marcus, and found my way to a sunny spot in the grass. Sitting there for a moment, I could hear my companions chatting out on the patio. I was excited to tell them how I’d spent my morning. Would they be surprised to hear how exhilarated I was about not completing the course? Maybe.

And that would be just fine.

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